


You want a title?! HERE HAVE A TITLE! *sobs*

by IamatrashCAN



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Beautiful tiddies, Bottom Steve, Dark, Forced Feminization, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roughness, Spit As Lube, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Virgin Steve Rogers, Voyeurism, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, lots of things are implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamatrashCAN/pseuds/IamatrashCAN
Summary: "Be a dear and get out of those dirty clothes.""Just what do you think is going to happen?" Steve asks, sounding more confident than he feels. But he looks wary. As he should be. There's a wolf in the sheep's pen.“Whatever the fuck I want,little girl.”(I'm terrible at summaries. And titles. xD)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020





	You want a title?! HERE HAVE A TITLE! *sobs*

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grzanka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grzanka/gifts).



> For Grzanka, 
> 
> Artisinal trash fire, crafted with care! I hope it ticks all your goodie boxes and you have the utmost enjoyment! <3 Happy Hydra Trash Holidays!
> 
> A massive THANK YOU to buckybleeds for beta-ing this fic and the kind support and the massive work of organising everything and being generally awesome!  
> Thank you for letting me participate! :D

You know, he really didn't fucking ask for a lot in life.

He wanted a job that provided a little excitement and where he could make a difference. Learn some new things, maybe travel the world.

Who didn't want these things? 

Idiots, maybe.

He didn't want the drama of his work to come home with him. Wanted pals he could crack open a cold one with on the weekends. Maybe go home, fuck a nice warm willing body and call it a night.

That's it. Pretty basic in the grand scheme of things. Job security, a chance for promotion, opportunity to excel up the line of command. Great!  _ Whatever.  _

But the thing is, Brock Rumlow hadn't realized what was out there until he was  _ out there _ . 

The thrill of a kill. The comradery that near death experiences inspire.

Yeah. Yeah, they don't fucking  _ tell you _ about that when you put your name on the line. That's the secret sauce. First one's on the house. Accidents happen in training. But, maybe it comes later, when you're out on deployment for the first time. It’s a long goddam way away from home and what happens out there? Well! They give you the good shit and then comes the end of the contract. You gotta keep signing if you're gonna keep coming 'round for more. 

But it's not always sanctioned. Other buzzards circle these corpses. And that's how they got him. Fitting their profile. Vulnerable, young, few attachments. Capable and hot blooded. They promise hopes and dreams of a paid ride through university - he could be anything! But first, he's gotta do the hard yards.

Special ops. 

And while you're out there? You're  _ off the grid _ . The radio goes dark and who the fuck really knows what happens there between one rapid heartbeat and the next? No one on mission's gonna say a damn thing because everyone’s hands are goddamn filthy.

Sometimes you fuck up. Sometimes you get lucky. 

Sometimes you end up getting information you don’t expect. You meet interesting people. And  _ the cash! _ Fuck! The next thing you know, you’re recruited. Like a seedy Hollywood producer and a fresh-faced starlet. And booooy howdy was it one hell of a casting couch.

So, that's what happened. His story, he'll stick to it. 

~

The best part of not being a fuck-up are _ promotions _ . Reward for hard work and good service.

The day he received possession of the Asset was one he'll never forget. He couldn’t get over the squirmy wormy flip flopping in his stomach when he realized what was happening. What was going on. When Alexander Pierce opened those doors and walked him through it.

He wouldn't say he ever really got attached to the Asset. Not as attached as he was to his goddamn face. Which, to be perfectly honest hadn't been a bad one in the grand scheme of things. He could get what he wanted without having to really try too hard and that had suited him quite well.

Til that fucker in the costume with the colors that match too many fucking countries and his stupid bleeding heart antics crashed that helicarrier into the building and ruined it. Not just his face but his body: covered in burns and scars. Hell, he didn’t know there were so many things that could be broken in a single body. On the job experience he didn’t want.

So, yeah. He had a bit of a fucking grudge. One not abated by the fact that recovery felt agonizingly slow and he had to rub fucking cream into his skin all the goddam time like a middle aged housewife in the suburbs routinely smearing  _ goop _ all over because moisturised skin was the only thing keeping his life together. The only bit of control left.

But you know what? Brock fuckin' Rumlow was no quitter. He was a  _ survivor _ . Might have gone better if he hadn't beat the shit out of the medical staff and made a getaway. He wasn't going to stick around and wait for the fallout. But thems the breaks. Brock wasn’t one for getting institutionalised.

~

"I gotta say, Rumlow, this isn't your usual gig. I'm a little surprised." 

No. His informant is completely fucking right. Spy shit and spade work isn't his bailiwick but he sure did rub elbows with quite a few of the spooks in his time with Hydra. So he had more than a couple ideas of how he might get his hands on his target. He'd been haunting his little's ghost's graveyard for a while now, after all. So, if that cyborg bitch survived, and he's pretty sure he did, Brock's going to get him. And he'll get him before his buddy ol'pal Steve gets him. Because that's what will really make that asshole  _ hurt _ .

For that reason alone, he makes himself exhale slowly, a thin grin splitting that ruined mess of a face as he shakes his head. Gotta remember the plan. The end game isn't spraying the wall with this guy's grey matter. It's the Asset.

"Yeah, well. It was either this or modelling." He wrinkles his nose, giving the pistol in his hand a little wave. "You got something for me or not?" 

The fact of the matter is, the Asset's coming unglued. Leaving little breadcrumbs. Without order, he's chaos. And Brock knows how he ticks when the wheels start to fall off. He's witnessed it a handful of times before he needed to be sat down and shown how his little icecube world really works. 

"Yeah, I got somethin' for you." 

"Perfect." He says with a smug grin, taking the file. Little sightings. Rumors. A metal arm's hard to hide and you know what? Brock was  _ liked. _ He had a scumbag charm that made him approachable and people respected him because he got the job done and didn’t ask too many questions. His connections before Hydra were still coming through for him. Almost enough to make him teary eyed with emotion. Almost.

Some evenings he wonders how the Asset's doing. If that briandead spit fuck’s managed to overcome all those mental blocks that Hydra’s so painstakingly beaten into his thick head. 

Probably has, since it seems he's managed to skip over at least once ocean and ended up losing his tail somewhere near Budapest. 

Not as much fun for Brock, then. That one'll need a firm hand to bring him back to heel.

~

A very firm hand, as it turns out. He supposes the silver lining of losing his rugged good looks was the fact he seemed to lose his ability to feel pain. Convenient, because the Winter Soldier decided throwing him through a goddamn wall might be a good way to greet his ol' friend after a few months of absence.

Frankly, it was all he could do not to feel offended.

But the thing is Hydra was made up of a lot paranoid fucks. Like,  _ really _ paranoid. 

So when he scrambled out of broken plaster and crumbled concrete, when he got up, blocked that silver fist coming for his face and muttered _ 'sputnik'  _ it wasn't with a small amount of savage glee he watched those pale eyes widen before that long frame crumpled like a ragdoll and hit the ground. 

Hydra installed a kill switch. Well, maybe not a  _ kill _ switch, but it stopped that bitch dead in the water. Enough that he could move him to his own holdings and put him into some proper restraints.

When there's no convenient magic bullet ninja shaker for the Asset's brain to turn it back into putty. Well, Brock's glad he was paying attention when they discussed emergency backup plans. The old fashioned way of resetting that failing hardware. Time to roll up the sleeves and use some good ol' elbow grease. 

Because the Winter Soldier sure got himself a 'tude. And that really wasn't going to suit Brock’s grand scheme. Well, less of a grand scheme and more of an increasingly unhealthy obsession. But given how annoying everything has been and how much work he's had to put into it; he feels a bit entitled to have his moment.

And what a fucking moment it is.

~

"B-Bucky?" Steve sounds appropriately concerned. Sneaking into the house like he had any sort of damn right. Like a thief in the night. No doubt, here to steal all the fun left in this world for Brock. 

Of course, the Winter Soldier doesn't respond. Kneeling in that same position. Blackened eye healing up nicely. Sadly, the marks never seem to last very long on the man. In contrast to the pinkened raw flesh on Brock's knuckles. He'd had to stop punching when the muscles in his arm gave out. Turns out pain was a good way of telling someone when their body’s reached its limit. Oh, well. Y’win some and ya lose some.

He exhales smoke through his nostrils, digging the cigarette into the yellowing laminated surface of the shitty dining table. More of a card table really, he didn't ask about the details when he secured this little bubble of domestic bliss. And honestly he's probably gonna torch the joint when he's done here. 

The sound is enough to stop Steve's examination, those fingers reaching tenderly for the side of "Bucky's" face, checking that blank face for any sign of life. Oh it's alive. But it's been told to sit still and be good. 

"Who the hell are you?" he stands in a fluid motion, not even flinching at the sight of the handgun on the table. Arrogant prick. That's going to have to get corrected. 

Brock frowns, kicking his legs off the table and stands, stretching out his back. 

"Jesus. I'm hurt, Rogers." Hand to his heart gonna cry a river. 

Steve's perfect brows begin to furrow. 

"Yeah. It's  _ me. _ I know," he gestures vaguely to his face. "it's a lot, huh?" 

He can see the muscles in Steve’s face working. See the wheels turning. Probably thinking about how to kill Brock or how to deal with his best maniac friend forever. 

"What did you do to him?" Selfless. Devoted. The asset's lucky. Rumlow’s not really sure he believes in love but this sure seems as close to the definition as he’s witnessed. There’s one thing he does believe; The Winter Soldier is the sweetest trap Brock's ever had to use. 

"When?" 

Steve looks confused. 

"Today? The last twenty minutes? The last few years? I need specifics." Rumlow grins crookedly - a nightmare mask of dripping candle wax. 

Steve moves towards him with an intent that Brock can really recognise.

He lifts up the handgun he’s been holding and Steve snorts. 

"You think that's gonna help?" he questions.

Brock shrugs, throwing it, to which Steve sidesteps nimbly for such a large unit. Until he hears the click behind him. He doesn't release the death grip he has on the collar of Brock's t-shirt but he  _ does _ look behind him.

From this angle, Brock can't see the full show but he feels satisfaction in watching Steve's lips part in confusion as he tries to make sense of Bucky checking the weapon. 

"Buck..." Cautious. Like talking to a wild animal. 

Except the asset ain't wild. He's well and truly house broken. Rumlow chuckles. 

"Bucky, it's me. It's Steve." There's a plea in those softly spoken words. 

Brock snorts.

"Come on, Stevie." he drawls, his hand lifting to settle over Steve's. 

"They said you were simple. Not fucking stupid! You really think that pistol is for you?"

Steve narrows his eyes, glancing back to Rumlow, a fleeting moment of uncertainty. 

Brock grins, that gnarled flesh twisting into a look of amusement. 

"He ain't gonna shoot ya." he assures. Steve looks back to the asset, those pretty blue eyes going wide as he sees the gun lifted to Bucky's head. That silver arm gleaming.

"N-no!" a whisper, a breathless fear.

"Make him stop!" his grip tightens on Rumlow's collar and the scarred man only clicks his tongue.

"That's on you, Rogers. The asset will terminate itself if you hurt me. It's an order." There's cruelty in his eyes.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath and releases him, stepping back with his hands raised. All the while, those listless pale eyes of the Winter Soldier simply observe, ready to comply.

"That's more like it." Rumlow chuckles, whacking the Cap on the back as he passes him, heading towards the kitchen. The bar fridge, pulling it open and helps himself to a beer.

"I think we could almost get along." he glances at the asset and then a thought occurs to him.

The captain really only has one weakness. Apart from bullets, he supposes. And it is shaped like the former Bucky Barnes. An easy hostage. He could really do anything he wanted to the star spangled man.

He comes to stand before him, reaching to grip Steve's jaw. There's tension. A resistance. And Rumlow expects it. But the tension eases the longer Brock stares at him with his unwavering gaze. 

Those pretty pink lips part and Brock slips the lip of the bottle between his teeth, giving a sharp tap and grins as the lid is popped off. That grimace on Rogers' face is everything. 

"Good. Look at you being useful." he slumps down on the couch, the odd sound of crinkling vinyl. Plastic wrapped sofa cushions. A novel idea, but again, he didn't buy the decor. Can't say he's a fan of the way his skin sticks to it but he can't be fucked to remove it. 

So they sit like this, watching each other. Watched by that vacant shell with a gun raised to its head. Patient as stone.

The way Rogers keeps looking over. Worried. Maybe hoping Bucky will snap out of it while Brock sips his beer. Kind of cute. Mostly just pathetic.

He wonders if the two of them actually ever did  _ it _ . Y'know, were a couple ‘in love’. 

"I heard he was a fuckboy. Before fuckboys were a thing. A real lady's man." Brock breaks the uneasy silence. 

Steve swallows, his eyes narrowing but obviously not willing to give him the satisfaction of a response. That's okay. Brock can make assumptions. It's more fun that way. 

"Bet you wished it was your scrawny ass. Yeah, I saw the museum." Brock shakes his head. What a sight that would have been; little Stevie Rogers bouncing up and down with that pretty pink cock bobbing. Small hands gripping the sheets and struggling to breathe with that reported asthma while sweat ran down that narrow chest. 

"Inseparable on the school yard and battlefield, huh?" 

"This isn't going to work, Rumlow." Steve crosses his arms. Someone will call the cops. Hell at this rate, it might even be him. "You picked a neighborhood for this stunt?”

Brock shrugs. 

"Guess that's something you haven't learned about modern civilisation, yet. Nobody gives a shit. They don't wanna get involved in anything  _ messy _ ." he shakes his head, rolling his eyes. 

"I've had that one screaming and moaning for weeks and not one person has checked in." Rumlow informs him, seeing that tension setting into that strong jaw. Oof. He bets that hurt.

If someone bothered to ask Brock what his sexuality was... He'd have just responded with 'Yes'. 

It's not something he really cared about or thought too much of when it came down to it. If he got the itch... He'd scratch. And his work meant that there wasn't always a guaranteed sort of person to suit a particular preference around. Y'make do. Willing or not. 

But there's one thing Brock could always pick; whether or not a person was a bitch. And Steve? 

He chuckles as he stands from that plastic wrapped sofa. 

"Come on." he gestures for Steve to follow him. Reluctantly, he gets up, bracketed by the Winter Soldier trailing after them like a forlorn shadow. 

The bedroom.

Steve suddenly looks not only uncomfortable but also confused. This house makes no sense to him. Like the expired dream of some middle class family. Dirtied, somehow, by Brock's presence and turned sinister by the gleam in those dark eyes.

And Brock doesn't give two shits. In fact, he kinda likes it. He pulls open the drawers of the dresser and has a look through them. Truth be told, he's not even sure if his junk still works for this particular purpose, but to be perfectly honest he's still got an imagination and he thinks he’s funny as hell.

"Be a dear and get out of those dirty clothes." 

"Just what do you think is going to happen?" Steve asks, sounding more confident than he feels. But he looks wary. As he should be. There's a wolf in the sheep's pen.

Steve grits his teeth, taking a small step closer. The way Rogers stops and looks mortified as Brock flicks his gaze towards the Winter Soldier and back makes something inside that ruined man feel all warm and fuzzy. 

“Whatever the  _ fuck _ I want, little  _ girl _ .”

Little girl?   
  
“Take it off. Don’t be shy.” There’s a firm edge to Brock’s tone that has the Winter Soldier growing tense, watching for signs of the necessity of his interaction. Silently assessing. God, Buck!  _ Please _ ! But of course, the serum hadn’t made him telepathic and the Winter Soldier shows no sign of acknowledging his silent plea.

What’s the worst that can happen, right?

He’s been down this road before.The last kid off the track and bigger ones deciding to pick on him, taking his clothes and leaving him naked and shivering out of the shower trying to find his clothes hidden all over the school. Except, back then he had Bucky to help.    
  
“Fine.” He huffs, his hands shaking a little as he moves to unbuckle his harness, his belts. Freeing himself from his suit as he kicks off his boots. A dark heap on otherwise filthy dusty rose thick shag carpet. 

“Such a goddam waste.” Rumlow mutters, sipping his beer with the shake of his head. 

Rogers stands naked but for his socks, his hands over his privates as he tries not to look at Rumlow and hopes he looks bored. Whatever form of rebellion he can have, he’ll take. This sick game can’t last. And the moment there’s a chance, he’ll take it. Because a man like Rumlow is bound to misstep somewhere. And he reckons it can’t possibly take that long.

“On your knees.” 

Steve narrows his eyes but lowers himself. That scarred man is over in a second kicking his hands away his crotch and simply  _ looks _ down at him. He can feel a strange heat rising to his cheeks. Being observed like this. He hasn’t felt this exposed and vulnerable in a long time.

Finally, Rumlow scoffs and the dirty sole of his boot is pressed hard against that flaccid organ between his legs. It’s uncomfortable and Steve resists the urge to seize that leg and break it.

“Now, I heard that Stark was a pretty smart guy.” Rumlow leans down, a soft metallic sound as the ball chain around his neck slips out of the collar of his t-shirt, dog tags tinkling like a woeful windchime. They tap against Steve’s face - a welcomed distraction until he sees they’re not Rumlow’s tags after all. But ones belonging to James Buchanan Barnes. 

His jaw tightens and the look he gives Rumlow is murderous while his fingers curl into white knuckled fists.

“Except here we have,” He presses down harder until Steve squirms, the pinch of the rubber soles against sensitive skin and pulling awkwardly against the soft down of his pubic hair. “a cock on a goddamn pussy. What’s up with that?” He draws his foot back, gifting him with a swift kick that leaves Steve blinking back tears and trying to catch his breath. He has many things he can say about Brock Rumlow, but that the man doesn’t know how to hit and make it hurt is not one of them. 

He takes the reprieve of Rumlow’s back being turned to try to regain his composure and to try to get Bucky’s attention. Except there’s no attention to be had. That beautiful face is hardly different to an abandoned church. All that bright colored stained glass. The walls, the marble floor and the fancy roof are all intact but there’s no one there. The lights are all out. Just a lovely, empty shell. 

He wants to believe a part of his friend is there. That Bucky can see his friend and the peril that is coming and wants to help. But that vacant stare does nothing to even sugg- something brushes across his face, dragging his attention away from the dark shape of the Winter Soldier and back up at Rumlow. 

Something hangs from Rumlow’s fingers - the same thing that floated across his face. Something pink. A waterfall of silk. It reeks of cigarette smoke and old perfume. He stares at it and then back up at Rumlow with a lift of his brows. 

“Put it on.” Rumlow says, dropping it on the floor. 

“It won’t fit.” Steve states, his tone matter of fact. And it’s ridiculous. It’s a woman’s nightie? 

“Did I fucking  _ ask _ ? Put. It. On.”    
  
Steve exhales in a huff and reaches for it hesitantly. It feels so loud for how it contrasts with the stiff acrylic fibers in that ugly carpet under his knees. He begins to pull it over his head, leaving himself exposed. He hears Rumlow tsk at him, muttering about his cock again. The term alone makes him feel uneasy - he hadn’t really had time. Y’know. Mess around, experiment. Even if he were the sort to have done that. No,that’s not entirely true. He could have made time, Natasha was constantly trying to throw options out there. Viable women she thought he’d connect with. But with everything that had happened with Peggy and the gravitational pull of a supernova towards that man staring blankly at him from across the room. He’s at a loss. 

But the truth was if he was going to be doing any of  _ that, _ finally handing in his v-card, he certainly wouldn’t have chosen any of this.

He pulls the nightgown down as far as it will go. 

“There. Satisfied? What’s the point to all this, Rumlow?” He will still try diplomacy if he must. Anything to keep Bucky from pulling that trigger. Except Rumlow doesn’t seem to hear him, he’s just watching him with a look in his dark eyes that makes Steve’s cheeks heat.

“Get up.”

There must be enough elastine in the blend to make the soft sheen of silk stretch. Tight across his pecs, scrunching in at his narrow waist and clinging tight to his ass. Something Steve never had given much thought to. But Rumlow certainly seems to be giving it a lot of thought as he walks behind him. A touch to that sculpted curve. Steve tries not to shudder, feeling the uneven flesh through that thin smooth material. A heat through that wispy sigh of cloth. 

“At least they made  _ that _ right.” Rumlow mutters - his hand gripping the back of Steve’s neck and propels him over to the bed. He wishes he had the strength to just throw him over. But alas. The Winter Soldier probably could, Brock glances at the asset who still watches, impassive as the clifface of a coastline the face of a ship blown off course about to break upon it. 

“You know, you never apologised.” Rumlow puts pressure on the small of Roger’s back and Steve finds himself being directed to the bed, left with no other choice but to climb onto it, braced on his hands and knees on the dirty mattress, trying not to look at the stains and match them to whatever fluid had made them.

“For what?” 

“For severely decreasing my prospects with the ladies.” 

Steve shakes his head. Is that all this guy cares about?

“Guess you’ll have to do, you dumb cunt.” 

Steve’s cheeks burn again - trying to sit or move but there are hands on his hips that dig in fingernails with crescent shaped warnings he better not try to move. In front of him, Bucky watches. He tries not to think of h-how indecent he looks. How filthy Rumlow’s words are.

“I’m not a wo-” His voice is cut sharp with the harsh ring of flesh on flesh. His ass cheek tingles and it leaves him breathless, trying to process.

A moment later he can feel those same ruined hands sliding around his waist. A pressure of hips to his ass that makes him shift slightly to keep his balance. He hates how wonderfully smooth that material feels as those exploring fingers map the lines of his muscles. The grimy closet door consisting of a floor to ceiling mirror beside Bucky makes the image impossible to ignore. 

Steve on all fours with Rumlow leaning over him, with his hands kneading into his pecs. It could almost feel nice, if h-he closes his eyes. If it wasn’t Rumlow. If his best friend wasn’t a hostage, if he couldn’t feel the scrape of denim from Brock’s jeans on his bare ass. He exhales shakily, a soft sound of protest as his nipples are caught between Brock’s thumb and forefinger. Then a yelp as he pulls, applying more pressure, his body responding with goosebumps erupting all over his skin.

“You got nice big tits.” Rumlow’s breath is hot against his ear. “Gave you all tits and no brains. That’s okay, babe. I’ll teach you.”

Teach  _ what? _ Steve bites back the question, biting his lower lip instead to keep himself from making any sort of noise as the coarse bristle of Rumlow’s stubble meets with the side of his neck that feels nigh on violent in comparison to how surprisingly smooth his lips still are and the soft suction there. He forgets himself, his eyes closing and the tension on his lower lip eases as Rumlow works his tongue along the side of his neck, flicking at his earlobe.

Oh  _ god _ why does it have to f-feel-?! He tells himself it’s because he’s been neglecting himself. That is all there is to it. Just an inescapable biological response that he can't change. A-anyone could do that and his body would react the same way, right? 

He whimpers and Rumlow pulls away with a chuckle that sounds like the report of a handgun in a dark alleyway at night. He feels chilled, cold where Rumlow’s saliva is left in the open air and the absence of his oppressive heat. 

There's a small pinch at his toes, both socks drug off in a matter of a couple short jerks.

Then that warmth is back, he can feel Rumlow's belt buckle digging into his flesh as he leans over him, one hand on the mattress beside Steve's. 

"You wonder if he's in there? Seeing you here like this? Dressed up all pretty, letting another man touch your big bimbo boobs?" he whispers in his ear. Steve looks up to Bucky, lips parting slightly. And that's about all the space Rumlow needs. 

He coughs slightly, trying to spit out the fingers that slip into his mouth. Intrusive. They taste like tobacco and god knows what else. He nearly bites down but he stops himself as Bucky's body moves ever so slightly.

"Suck on 'em, little lady." Rumlow's voice rumbles in his ear. He does so, even as they roam, investigating his gums, pushing under his tongue and sliding up along the ridges on the roof of his mouth until he gags, choking as they push down his tongue towards the back of his throat in a vulgar pumping motion. 

He hears a soft chuckle from behind him. 

" _ That's _ gonna be fun to play with later." 

Steve isn't sure how. And he's mortified by the thick string of saliva that hangs from his lips to the fingers Rumlow has pulled out of his mouth. Watches him rub that thickness between his fingers before he straightens up behind him. 

"Bet you didn't know you had a pussy, you dumb slut." one hand grips his ass cheek, and Steve's eyes widen, Rumlow's knee pushing his further apart even though he tries to squirm away. 

"Stop!" Steve grits out, his fingers curling into fists, gripping that soiled mattress. Rumlow has had his fun, this is going too far! 

"You think I need your say-so? You think I needed his? A  _ real _ man takes what he wants." 

Steve is frozen by his words. The implications. His eyes burn with a sheen of tears forming. Oh  _ god _ . Bucky! 

He feels the slide of fingers down his crack, slippery with his own saliva. He shudders and tenses. 

"Baby, relax." Rumlow coos, teasing that tight pucker of flesh with the flat of his fingertip, enjoying the way Rogers twitches and jerks trying to get away. He doesn't relax, of course. 

Because nothing about this is relaxing. Nothing about this is right. Not the way his heart hammers in his chest, not the heat building in his core, the way his skin feels too tight. Not the horror of knowing and not knowing exactly what's been done to Bucky.  _ His _ Bucky. 

Or  _ should _ have been his. If he'd been a real man. Taken what he wanted. 

Rumlow ‘s not particularly gentle. He knows how the faulty serum worked on the asset and his body in terms of recovery so he's pirouetting through a minefield of guesswork here on how much better this premium grade beef will take it. And if he fucks up something real bad, so much the better.

He moans shakily as Rogers cries out in pain but he doesn't give two shits. Not when it's a fight to get even one finger in that obscenely tight heat. 

"Oh, your cunt is real tight, baby. You been saving yourself for a real man, huh? About the only damn thing a stupid whore like you could manage."

Rogers has sunk down to his elbows, face resting on that gross mattress top and groans in pain. Rumlow is glad he didn’t bother to make up the bed, it's better this way. Pristine flesh, pretty pink silk and utter filth. The shift in position only allows Brock a better view. A flushed pink rim of tight skin swallowing up his digit and the way Rogers whimpers and squirms feels fucking  _ amazing  _ around his scarred finger. So amazing, in fact, he doesn’t feel like walking slowly through the park with this one. 

Like a rabid dog with a taste for blood. He pushes in another finger and Rogers howls.

“Look at you! Getting all nice and wet for me.” He pauses, red dribbling down the inside of Rogers’ thighs, looking at the man standing across the room. For a moment he swears he sees a flicker of emotion on that face. Scowling, he pulls his fingers out of Rogers who makes a keening whimpering sound and pulls his belt free of its loops. Yeah, if he’s listening, if he’s watching like a goddamn pervert? Rumlow will give him a show. 

He works himself out of his jeans, not bothering to get out of them entirely. He snorts down, a twisted smirk on his face.

“Well, wouldya look at that?” He mutters half to himself. Looks like the ol’ boy still got some life in him even if it looks somewhat like a neglected hotdog on a bbq during a 4th of July picnic. He spits down into his palm, not that he needs much lubrication. He’s pretty sure he’s torn Rogers pretty good. And oh god is it a smooth slide into that tight resisting flesh that clenches around him to try to keep him out but Rumlow’s just gonna go with it because _ holy shit _ it feels so damn good.

“Oh, that’s real nice, honey.” He growls, gripping the smooth globes of Roger’s ass to steady himself as he begins to work himself into him. Rogers is frantic, trying to fight back but stopping himself because he knows what will happen if he doesn’t keep himself in check.

“That’s it. Take it.” Rumlow pants, finally seating his hips against his ass, buried inside, he reaches around gripping that pec again and pinches his nipple hard, biting into the meat of his trapezius muscle. 

“You got no choice.” He whispers, licking over the angry red flesh and he feels Rogers shudder beneath him, making a sound that’s nigh on wantonly. Maybe it’s what the fucker needs and just doesn’t know it yet. To lose control. But, Rumlow’s not his damn therapist so he doesn’t really give a shit either way.

“Just let it happen, babe. You’ll get to liking it soon enough. We got nothin’ but time.” At least, that’s what Rumlow figures. It’s that or Rogers is going to snap and try to kill Rumlow. And if he does that, Rumlow just hopes he has enough moments of life left to see Rogers’ face shattered when he hears that gun go off. Losing his stupid best friend.

The thought is almost enough to make him bust right then and there. Call it a hazard of not having time to ‘empty the chamber’ a few times in preparation. He used to have great stamina but he s’poses that needs a bit of rehab, too. Use it or lose it.   
  
But you know what? Why fucking fight it? He thrusts into him a few more times and comes hot and messy inside. He groans as he slides out of that ruined, swollen ring of flesh and chuckles softly. An ooze of milky white mixing with crimson offset by the blue-purple smudges of bruises left from where he held him steady. Red white and blue. Maybe later he’ll make him see stars.

“Lookin’ mighty patriotic back here, Miss America.” He snorts. It sure reminds him of the first time he took the asset. On the hood of their transport vehicle post-mission. Maybe that’s what the asset is remembering, too. Who the fuck knows what’s going on in that broken ice-maker brain of his? One thing is for certain, however.

Rogers gasps, shuddering through the pain - jaw working around small hiccupping sobs for a moment. His eyes drift over to Bucky. He falls into a shocked silence. Light reflects off that silver gleaming arm ever so slightly with faint movement at the front of his pants.    
  
“B-bucky?” Terror. Hurt. Shock.

Rumlow smirks, slipping the belt over Rogers’ head, tugging back so he has to sit up and stare up at Rumlow’s fucked up mug or choke. He sits up but Rumlow holds that black leather tight across his throat and keeps his abdominal muscles tight against the back of Rogers’ head.

“You be a good girl for me and maybe one day I’ll let him use that tight little hole of yours, hm? Let him fuck you so hard with another’s man spunk dripping out of your ruined filthy cunt and stare up into those steely eyes. Wouldn’t that be romantic?” 

He keeps that belt there nice and tight til Rogers’ eyes begin to flutter, then he releases it, pushing him over with his knee. Rogers slumps over on the mattress, sucking in air, tear clumped lashes half over his eyes as he stares at Bucky who is impassively if not lazily jerking himself off. It’s not the asset’s fault, really. He’s barely more than an animal when he’s fresh into his reprogramming. Plus, he’s only really been exposed to one flavor of fucking. And it ain’t gentle and sweet. 

Rumlow chuckles, stretching his arms behind his back before he tucks himself back into his jeans like nothing even happened. 

He wanders over to the vanity with a leisurely stride and drags open a drawer. Not an immodest collection of cosmetics gleams up at him. This house really is the damn gift that keeps giving. He reaches down and selects a tube of lipstick, plucking off the cap and looking at the vibrant shade inside.    
  
He looks over at Rogers and smirks.

“Get your beauty sleep, princess. You’re gonna need it.”

~End

  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  



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